


Can you hear the drumming?(there's a revolution coming)

by Crescent_Blues



Series: Antichrist Verse [1]
Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Childhood Trauma, Fluff and Angst, Hospitals, How Do I Tag, Hurt/Comfort, Identity Reveal, Multi, Murder, Nightmares, Pre-Spider Bite Peter Parker, Synesthesia, Training, Trans Peter Parker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-08
Updated: 2019-10-08
Packaged: 2020-11-27 05:48:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20943335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crescent_Blues/pseuds/Crescent_Blues
Summary: "You know how to throw a punch?"Peter stops fidgeting and his heartbeat slows as he breathes deep and forces it to calm. The endorphins aren't quite there yet but he can almost taste the excitement, the hopefulness. Like carmel, like yellow, like tacky sweetness."Don't tuck your thumb into your hand and keep your wrist and arm straight?"He has the basics.That's a good start.Right?(Matt accidentally acquires one Peter Parker at the ripe old age of eleven and becomes the mentor he never wanted to be)





	Can you hear the drumming?(there's a revolution coming)

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Revolution by the Score, because that's what I was listening to while writing this. Amongst other songs by the score  
Thanks to my wonderful friends that beta-ed, Siri and Lee, who doesn't actually know who Daredevil is outside my ramblings

Matt doesn't think much of his latest case, an unjust eviction for an entire apartment floor.

An  _ entire  _ floor.

On fabricated and untrue causes.

An unfortunately familiar thing with the lastest rising prices in rent, attempted and successful forced evacuations, and destruction of property leading to people fleeing their homes.

It had been brought to the attention of Nelson & Murdock by a man and his wife, the Parker's, on recommendation from their nephew who had searched for lawyers that would work on very little and looked at reviews online.

Pages upon pages of good reviews apparently, praise for their bilingualism, for working pro bono, for taking cases and keeping people out of jail even if it didn't pay.

Pages upon pages of good reviews for being good, decent people.

Gathering statements is easy, and presenting them favorably in court is even easier.

People like to root for the underdog, the unjustly wronged, the man and woman just trying to raise their nephew in the only house he's ever known.

People like to feel like they're doing something that affects the world.

Like they're doing good, impacting someone's life, changing fate's design.

It's like a power trip.

Matt understands that intimately.

And he plays on it unashamedly.

But it also isn't a case that he hasn't done before, so he doesn't think much of it.

He's just trying to help out some ordinary people so that they don't have to leave their homes.

Winning the case is a simple, cut and dry affair.

Tenants around the floor pitch in to pay him for his services even though he said he was fine working pro bono, and the one to deliver the Parker's is their nephew.

Who thanks him for defending their home in an entire breath, and passes a small sum of money into his hands right next to a first aid kit.

It's labeled in Braille and full of painkillers and gauze and needles.

"My aunt's a nurse," he quietly rambles to Matt as the floor starts to fall out from under him. "And I know you get beat up a lot at night saving Hell's Kitchen and stuff, so I figured I could get you some of the really strong stuff from the hospital. As thanks. For everything you do. I know a lot of people don't appreciate you, or know who you are, and I thought… even if it was just me, one is better than none."

Matt takes the kit with shaking hands because he isn't sure what else he's supposed to do.

"Pardon?"

The Parker's nephew,  _ Peter,  _ if he remembers right, straightens up, his heartbeat growing faster. "You have the same build and even when you had bruises, your knuckles were still bloody and you only get bloody knuckles from fighting back." Peter sounds intimately aware of that fact and something shifts and bubbles in Matt's skin. "I also noticed the way you walked? How you use your cane sometimes and follow along tables and walls and stuff, and then how you hold it close to your chest and tilt your head like you're listening to something and walk without it. You never look lost."

Jesus H. Christ, who said this kid could be so  _ smart? _

Was Matt really that obvious?

Peter pauses in his explanation to… something with his hands? Wring them? Twiddle his thumbs?

Matt can't tell.

"I also… in court, when the landlord was… insinuating stuff about my neighbors, you got really still at your desk and your hands went into fists and you tilted your head right at him. You looked really angry. It was familiar, the way you were holding yourself."

Peter takes a deep breath that strains in his lungs.

_ Asthma? _

_ Binder? _

_ Old bruising? _

"Was I… was I wrong?" He asks so quiet only Matt's hearing would be able to pick it up.

He could say yes.

Matt could definitely, definitely say yes.

He could say that Peter was wrong, that he didn't understand what he was talking about, but the thought feels.

Bad?

Peter said his aunt was a nurse, and that he'd gotten the first aid kit from the hospital.

Which means he stole medicine for Matt, stole medical supplies, which could be a serious offense if anyone had caught him.

But he'd did it anyway, taken the risk, sure that he was right, sure that he wanted to thank  _ Matt _ for being the reckless, crazy son of a bitch that runs around Hell's Kitchen trying to keep it clean by beating people up.

Really, Matt's mind was made up for him the moment Peter gave him the first aid kit.

Dammit.

With no small amount of wonder he asked, "How'd you do that? Are there videos or something?"

_ "Holy shit," _ Peter swears with awe, tone mixed with disbelief. "How do you do it? Like, do your eyes not work but the rest of your senses are heightened or something?"

Matt must look surprised because Peter's heartbeat picks up in excitement.

"I was right, wasn't I?" 

Matt wrinkles his nose but smiles anyway.

The kid's excitement is contagious.

Does Matt actually  _ like him? _

"Who gave you the right to be so clever?"

"I'm gonna go to a STEM school, Mr. Murdock, on scholarship. And I saw you walk into a wall after having an energy drink." His heartbeat picks up again. Anxiety. He's nervous. Sweat on his palms. "I just, I have a question? And you can say no! It's just, um… there's this kid at my school, right, and he's always picking on me and my friend and no one  _ does anything  _ about it. He bullies us almost everyday and no one cares or stops it, because if they do, then that means they're with us and against him and then they'll get bullied too. It's not right, Mr. Murdock, but if the teachers aren't gonna stop him, then someone else has to, right? He keeps pushing me and Ned around and just once I'd… I'd like to be able to push back." Peter, for all that his voice shakes, sounds bitter. Sounds angry.

Matt can smell it now.

The acid of bruises on his shoulders where he was, probably, shoved into something, like a wall or like lockers.

He can smell the saline on Peter's face, hear the rustle of fabric as his hands move to rub at his eyes.

Fuck.

Shit.

Kid, please don't say what he thinks you're about to because goddamn he might not be able to say no.

"And you're really strong, Mr. Murdock, and you fight all kinds of bad people, professional bullies, so I was wondering… could you show me how to become strong, like you? If I could fight back just one time… maybe he'd finally leave us alone."

He can't say no.

He wants to, because it would be the right thing, to keep this kid, this soft, soft kid, away from all of his bullshit.

He can't drag a kid into the Devil.

He can't, not on good conscience.

Even he has his limits.

But by God, Matt might just do it anyway.

He knows what it's like to get pushed around and harrassed and have no one do anything. He knows what it's like to feel helpless and angry and bitter at the world.

Six foster homes, Stick, the orphanage.

The dark years where he was so goddamn angry and so goddamn low.

He doesn't want this kid to end up like him.

"You know how to throw a punch?"

Peter stops fidgeting and his heartbeat slows as he breathes deep and forces it to calm. The endorphins aren't quite there yet but he can almost taste the excitement, the hopefulness. Like carmel, like yellow, like tacky sweetness.

"Don't tuck your thumb into your hand and keep your wrist and arm straight?" 

He has the basics.

That's a good start.

Right?

Fuck, how does he do this without becoming Stick?

"Mhmm. Keep your bones in alignment so they don't bend at an angle and break. You just wanna know how to hit, or do you wanna know how to fight? Knowing how to fight is going to take longer, take more time and commitment." Matt looks at Peter, hopefully right in the face but maybe a little bit off. "Is that something you're up for? Is that something that you can do?"

Peter answers without hesitation.

"Yes."

Like he isn't a kid making a deal with the Devil.

Jesus Christ, Matthew Michael Murdock.

The hell did you just agree to?

———

Peter, Matt quickly learns, is eleven years old, painfully optimistic, and carrying a chip on his shoulder about the size of his fist named Eugune "Flash" Thompson.

Whenever Peter mentions him he feels less like yellow and caramel and optimism and more like bitter and sharp and back alleys.

(Flash, the bully that pushes Peter around, doesn't scare him. He makes him angry, because he can't  _ do  _ anything about it, about the bullying and the abuse.

It tastes like betrayal on Matt's tongue.

But Peter, he sure as hell ain't afraid. He isn't scared. Not by a bully that's all bark and no bite, that has other kids do the leg work for him.

Peter isn't scared of a lot of things.

It's gonna get him killed one day.

But it also makes pushing him to do better a whole lot easier.

He doesn't get scared of things like being hit or getting hurt.

Peter gets scared of consequences. He's not afraid of being up high but, instead, afraid of being up high  _ and falling _ .

So when he gets hit, Peter doesn't get scared of getting hit again.

He gets mad and fights back with a vengeance.

Matt can work with that.

_ Matt can work with that.) _

They start out with forms first, before any actual fighting.

Peter isn't like Matt, no abilities to fall back on, for all that they don't make him a lot stronger or make him heal a lot faster.

He's normal.

Painfully normal.

So they do forms.

It's slow work, and from the irritation he can smell, not Peter's favorite thing.

But he doesn't complain.

Just follows Matt's movements with as much grace as any eleven year old can.

He's already a lot better than Matt was at his age.

As far as patience goes, anyway.

Maybe it's because he doesn't pick at Peter's wounds, doesn't push him down every second he can, doesn't make a sport out of hitting him with everything he's got until Peter can't move.

Maybe it's because he treats Peter like a person instead of a soldier.

Whatever it is, training Peter is a hell of a lot more pleasant than Stick's training with him had been.

Compared to him, Peter's a blessing.

A goddamn  _ saint. _

And Matt feels worse and worse the farther he drags Peter down.

The more bite he teaches Peter to pack in his punch, the more danger he finds in Peter's walk, the more teeth he senses in Peter's snarl.

Matt does his best to not feel guilty, for all that it's in his blood.

Peter asked  _ him _ how to hurt.

He knew what he was getting into.

But that doesn't make it any easier.

Doesn't make it any easier to fight off the crumbling guilt that makes him feel as though he'll be crushed by the weight of it.

He put that glint in Peter's eyes there.

He put that snarl in Peter's voice there.

He put that danger in Peter's walk there.

He did that.

And by God he may be guilty as sin but  _ damn  _ if he isn't proud.

———

Foggy doesn't find out the way he ever wanted him to.

He finds out because of Peter.

But, in that moment, Matt really can't bring himself to care.

It starts like this:

They're working too damn early, running on coffee and energy drinks, all three of them, Matt and Foggy and Karen.

The firm is so, so new, and getting it up and running, getting it off the ground, takes a lot of time and dedication.

Matt hasn't even had time to go out for more than a few hours at a time, between the Parker's case, and then Mrs. Cardenas' case after that, getting Peter started with the basics on how to fight, plus getting the damn office  _ off of the ground. _

He'd barely had time to rescue Claire the other night.

Leading to another house of cards crumbling.

Matt doesn't think it would've worked out anyway.

The first tip off that something's about to go wrong is a heartbeat.

Fast as a rabbit's, fluttering and seizing and shuddering with anxiety and terror and something else he can't quite place.

Lungs straining around it even as the footsteps it belongs to stay even, forcibly so.

Someone faking nonchalance while actually being terrified.

Then it registers that the steps and heart and lungs belong to someone small and then it registers that it belongs to someone small that he knows and then it registers that it belongs to someone small that he knows  _ that is Peter. _

Matt is suddenly wide awake.

Shooting right out of his desk, head tilting over and over as he tries to narrow down the sound, Foggy and Karen jumping at the sudden motion.

They've never seen him like this before.

He hadn't wanted them to.

No one's following him, no one's following Peter, but he is  _ so damn scared  _ and holding it in  _ so damn well  _ and Jesus fuck, what the  _ hell _ happened to this kid before Matt met him?

Peter enters the building, enters the radius of how far Matt can smell, and now he can practically taste it, anxiety and fear and nerves and guilt and shame and sour and bitter lemongrass and ugly, ugly  _ gold. _

Peter's footsteps echo in his ears as he jumps the stairs two at a time, asthma pulling and picking at his lungs, turning everything in Matt's head up to an eleven.

He is worried and he is shaking and he is  _ angry. _

Because  _ someone hurt Peter. _

Because someone  _ scared Peter so much he thought he had to hide it. _

Twenty seconds into his haze, into Peter climbing the stair well and reaching the door, Matt realizes he's forgotten to breathe.

He exhales.

He unclenches his fists.

Blood drips to the floor.

And then the door is open and he stops caring.

"M-Matt," Peter wheezes, shaking in his office doorway, backpack full of somethings he doesn't care about, and terror lifting off him in waves. "Matt I saw something  _ awful." _ His voice cracks when he says  _ awful. _

Matt can't smell saline.

He can't smell ozone.

He's on his knees and pulling Peter down with him seconds before his legs give out from under him.

"Explain. Please. I can't help if I don't know what's wrong." Even to his own ears, Matt sounds desperate.

But it doesn't matter.

Nothing else matters right now.

Nothing else matters but Peter.

"I–" he shakes his head and his heart jackhammers and Matt takes Peter's hand and puts it on his chest.

"Focus on my heartbeat, okay? I won't let anything happen. I'd hear it coming miles away. Whole football fields. Take your time."

For four whole minutes Peter doesn't speak and for four whole minutes the world doesn't move.

Peter breathes.

He starts to speak.

And the world begins moving again.

"Aunt May and I volunteer at homeless shelters, right? And sometimes Uncle Ben, too? And I was bringing in food last night and it was really late but I didn't have school today so May said it was okay and I saw a cat? I saw a cat, and it looked really little and I didn't want it to d-die, Matt, so I tried to help it but it ran and I followed it and I know I wasn't supposed to but I did and–

"And someone died and I didn't  _ do anything Matt." _

"Oh god," Karen whispers.

"Jesus Christ," Foggy breaths.

Peter keeps going.

"I f-followed it to the alley way and it was by the bridge and I could see it so I knew that knew how to get back so I wasn't worried and then this black car drove up and a guy got out and it was dark but I tried really, really hard to see him, I swear. His clothes were dark but his hair was light and his accent was really thick but it wasn't Spanish or Chinese or Italian and it was really, really harsh.

"And then this other guy stepped out of the shadows of the bridge and he was so big, Matt, taller than you and bigger than you, bigger than  _ Thor.  _ He didn't have any hair and he wore a suit and he didn't have any accent at all. And the other guy was– was talking to him, and saying something about accepting something and the big guy got  _ angry.  _ He got angry and he started hitting the other guy and I saw him beat him up really bad but I couldn't move and then he–"

Peter's hand flies away from Matt's chest and towards his mouth and his voice starts to shake, barely contained.

"He put his head right where the door goes and I saw him swing it back and I  _ ran,  _ Matt, I ran but I still heard and he's dead, Matt and  _ I didn't do anything!" _

"Oh my god," Foggy sounds nauseous.

"He's just a kid, he's just a kid, oh my god," Karen says like she's dying.

Peter's not crying yet.

He's not crying yet and he's doing so much better than Matt at his first murder but he  _ doesn't want him to be. _

"Peter. Peter I want you to look at me." He takes off his glasses and folds them into his collar. "Right in the eyes, okay? I want you to look at me, right in the eyes."

"You're  _ blind, _ Matt. How will you know?"

"Because I'm asking you to. I don't need my eyes to work to know. Are you looking?"

He nods, trembling.

"Peter. First, understand that I am so, so proud of you, for being so compassionate, and for being so strong, and for getting away and not getting hurt. You are  _ so good, _ Peter, you are so good, like Foggy and your Aunt and your Uncle. You are  _ so kind,  _ even when people like me and the world don't deserve it.

"Second, you've held it together so, so well, buddy. But you don't  _ have to.  _ You don't have to be strong, not here, not with me, okay?"

He doesn't know what to do, not here, not in this situation. He remembers what trauma therapy said, what his stupid state mandated therapist said, but that's all bullshit that never actually made him feel better. He remembers what his dad did but Matt's  _ blind,  _ he doesn't  _ know  _ what you do to calm normal kids down from panic, from anxiety. It was never a problem for him, not until he was blinded and then not until his dad died.

So he grabs Peter's hands, and holds them up to his face because it's all he's got. "I'm right here. Can you feel that? I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere. And I'm not gonna let them hurt you. You've been so strong, Peter. You can take a little break. I won't tell anyone. I promise."

It takes a beat.

The smell of saline builds.

Peter hiccups.

And then his arms are around Matt and he's crying harder than anyone he's ever heard before.

Rivers and waterfalls and oceans of sorrow for someone he didn't know, that probably didn't deserve his guilt and his grief and his shame.

Matt wraps his arms around him too.

"I know it's awful now, but kiddo, I am so, so happy you didn't help, I am so, so happy that you froze because Peter _he would've_ _killed you." _

Peter shakes harder.

"I am so, so glad that  _ you're okay." _

"I couldn't  _ sto-o-op him!  _ Not like you o-or– or like the Avengers or anybody I was just  _ th-ere  _ and it was  _ awful." _

"I know. It's not okay but Peter at least you're remembering him. At least someone will remember he's gone."

"His na-me? Can you? Can you get his n-name? Please? Even if he was awful he still– he probably still ha-ad someone that  _ ca-ared." _

"I'll look. I'll start looking tonight and I'll tell you, I promise. I'll find them both, okay? The victim and the murderer, I promise."

Peter gasps for air like he's been drowning six feet under but leans back anyway and steadies his voice and stares him in the face, he's sure.

"You promise?"

"I promise. I'll stop him, I swear, and make sure he can't hurt anybody ever again."

"Someone–" Peter struggles through the tears. "Someone that could do something so awful doesn't deserve you being nice, Matt. He doesn't deserve nice things. He deserves to rot in jail forever. For two forevers. For everybody to know so he can't get out and no one will help him."

His voice shakes but Peter says it with conviction.

He means it.

He really, really means it.

"Okay, Peter." Matt says as soft as he can. "I'll do my best. Day and Night. I swear it. Swear on God, Peter, I'll get him. I'll go through every filing cabinet and jump across every rooftop."

"The police won't care," Peter pleads with devastating certainty. "Not like my Uncle Ben, not like you. They won't care. If you don't do it, no one will."

"I know, buddy." Matt assures. "That's why I do what I do."

"Matt?"

He spares a glance from Peter to Foggy but once he gets there he can't look away.

Foggy sounds and feels and smells confused and devastated and angry and  _ heartbroken. _

"What the hell is going  _ on?" _

"I– Foggy I can explain, I–"

"Please don't be mad, Mr. Foggy!" Peter sobs, tears hitting the floor as he twists to face Foggy with him. "He– people keep secrets to make it hurt less. When–" his tears grow heavier as his voice grows stronger. "When they di-ie. Like– like my parents."

Matt feels the entire room freeze.

"It was easier thinking their plane crash was an accident, that they were just– just scientists. It's  _ so much harder  _ knowing that they were important and SHIELD and that someone made their plane crash on purpose."

The office is silent.

Then Karen breaks out in a shaking voice, "I need to call my therapist," before disappearing into her office with a slam.

She doesn't have a therapist.

Matt can hear the sound of a desk drawer opening, hear glass tap the wood edge, hear liquid sloshing around.

Alcohol fills his nose as Karen throws back a beer.

That.

That seems to be the mood of the room, Karen.

Good job at reading that.

———

The verdict ends with Foggy being, understandably(even though it breaks his heart), royally pissed.

Pissed at Matt for lying, pissed at Matt for almost dying, pissed that Peter witnessed a murder, pissed that the corruption of the police department was pointed out by Peter, pissed that Peter had decided Matt was his chosen human and would not leave his side, pissed that Peter loved him –Foggy– and didn't understand why the fuck he did.

Foggy was pissed.

At everything and anything.

Fists shaking, throat bobbing, tears in his eyes and body wound so tight Matt thought he might just burst.

His knuckles clenched so hard Matt can smell blood.

He wants to gag.

Matt feels sick, but at the end of the day, Foggy is still there, somehow, even though it feels like it's only by a thread.

Angry and seething and hostile and so  _ goddamn  _ hurt.

Wanting an explanation.

He was almost sure that Foggy would've asked him if he was really blind.

But he doesn't.

He just.

Is really fucking angry.

Peter sobs himself to exhaustion after about ten more minutes of hysterics and passes right out, still in Matt's arms.

Foggy stares at him, in his quiet anger.

Matt doesn't know what to do.

He feels lost.

Like he's nine years old again and doesn't know how to be blind, ten years old again and doesn't know how to be an orphan.

"So," Foggy starts, Matt wincing at his tone. Foggy's all brimstone and blood and pumpkins gone rotten. No more purple and seafoam and lavender. "You've acquired a child. A  _ traumatized _ child. Which you're somehow going to do something about. Oh. And you're blind. But not blind."

Matt grimaces, tilts his head away. His glasses as still pinned to his shirt. The feeling of light hitting his eyes but not entering is one he'll hate for the rest of his life. But that means Foggy can probably see how his pupils don't dilate. At all.

"The accident where I went… blind," He croaks. It doesn't sound like a word anymore.  _ Blind, blind, blind. _ "Chemicals got in my eyes, and it burned for days. Still kinda does, actually. Phantom pains. I couldn't see anymore when I woke up, and my dad was the last thing I saw. Things were louder, and stronger, too much. I got migraines. I know where the desk is, and I know there are papers, can smell it, but I can't read it. Not unless it's Braille and only with my hands."

"Yeah? And what the fuck else can you do, Matthew?" Foggy hisses, almost sobbing. "That you've fucking always been able to do?"

"Heartbeats. Can hear them, filter them out. If I'm focusing, I can tell when someone's lying. I would rather people just tell me the truth."

"You– you can  _ hear  _ heartbeats? Tell when someone's  _ lying? _ Do you have any fucking idea how damn  _ invasive  _ that is? Every– every time I haven't told you the truth, every time I lied to you, the entire time we've known each other, you knew. You knew, and you just. Went  _ along  _ with it?"

Matt swallowed, felt the desert on his tongue, and struggled to breathe. "Yes."

Foggy reels away from him, hands shaking, shoulders trembling, saline shining in his eyes.

Matt wonders if this is what dying feels like and keeps on speaking.

"It's a radius of several city blocks. I can hear every damn thing in this city, even if I don't want to. Someone getting murdered there, someone walking their dog here, someone getting beat by their partner all the way over in Upper West.

"I decided that if I had these abilities… then I'd do something with them. Choose the war I was going to fight. Wage it on two fronts, not one. Instead of just sitting on my ass and listening as the city went to hell, like I did for years."

_ "Choose the war?"  _ Foggy laughs, hysterically. "You realize you sound fucking  _ insane???  _ Are you? Is that what this is? How long have you been  _ doing  _ this?"

"I turned my head for years Foggy, buried it as best as I fucking could. I broke, after we quit Landman and Zack. A man, who'd go into his daughter's room while his wife slept. I tried to do it the legal way, but Child Services didn't do anything. Couldn't do anything. Someone had to. Maybe I was a disappointment, too emotional, but I could still fight. I could still do something.

"I was trained to fight a war, Foggy. Might as well fight in one I actually believe in." Matt says into the air almost too quiet to make out. 

Foggy hears it all anyway.

"Are you– Matthew Michael Murdock are you a goddamn  _ child SOLDIER?"  _ Foggy nearly screams.

Peter grumbles and Matt shushes him.

He inhales.

He's never thought of it like that.

"Sure. I guess. It was training, or lose my mind at eleven years old. I honestly don't know if I would've survived this long without it. I hated it, but hey. Before I ruined it at least I had a purpose."

"God.  _ God.  _ What the  _ hell.  _ How much more tragic can your life fucking get?" Foggy asks without wanting an answer. "It's like, with every word I become more and more the bad guy and you're just some tragic soul."

Matt looks up, so quickly it almost hurts. "No. No, you're a good person, Foggy. One of the best I've ever met. You haven't done anything wrong except… decide _ I _ was a good person, I guess," he trails off awkwardly. He doesn't know what else to say.

To salvage this.

He's not sure he can.

Foggy doesn't say anything either.

He seems to be as lost as Matt.

"The kid?" Foggy speaks first after the silence grows unbearable. "Apparently I don't have a damn clue what kind of man you are, but dragging a kid into all of this  _ bullshit  _ doesn't seem your style. Whatever the hell it is anymore."

Matt licks his lips and smiles. Just a little. He can't help it. "You remember the Parker's? Peter's their nephew. He… he gave me a first aid kit as thanks. Figured out who I was and stole from the hospital his aunt works at because he's a reckless idiot. And I've had my fair share of reckless idiots. Mostly myself but… that's besides the point.

"He asked me to show him how to fight. To defend himself and his friend against bullies. I wanted to say no. I wanted to say no so, so badly. But he sounded so bitter. He sounded like the kind of people we dealt with at Landman and Zack. He's  _ eleven,  _ Foggy. I could smell the bruises and they were  _ bad.  _ Like battery acid." He curls around Peter just a little bit tighter. "I didn't want him to end up fucked up like me. I told him it would be hard, and take a long time, and asked if this was really something he wanted to do, and he said yes. Without hesitation. Like he wasn't– like he wasn't making a deal with the Devil."

Foggy is staring at him, he knows.

He can't smell or taste anything in the air and it's  _ so quiet. _

He scrambles to fill the silence, because every single part of Matt screams that silence with Foggy is wrong.

He doesn't know what else to say.

To explain.

So Matt talks about Peter instead.

"He did a full form the other day. It was messy, and he stumbled, but he did all of it, on his own, and I didn't have to show him anything." Matt smiles, lopsided and confused as he rambles. "And I was so proud of him. We ran two more together and then I walked him to the subway and I was still so proud. I went back to the gym after that, and Rudy, he looked at me and almost walked into a wall. I asked him what was wrong and he said that I'd looked just like my dad, walking through the door. For one second he could'a sworn Battlin' Jack was pushing those doors open to tell the whole damn world about what I'd done this time. It was surreal."

"I can see it." Foggy croaks unexpectedly.

Matt tilts his head. "What?"

"I can see it. It's that same face you had when we graduated. When we bought this shitty building. When I punched that guy when we went bar hopping." Foggy's voice goes soft, for all that it wobbles. "When you talk about him, I can see it."

Matt blinks and the world takes almost a minute to come back into fiery focus.

"Oh."

"Was any of us real? This firm, school, Nelson and Murdock against the world? Was any of that  _ real?" _ Foggy's voice cracks and Matt wants the ground to swallow him up whole. "Was it all just a lie?"

Matt's been low before.

Been low his whole life, but in this moment, the world falling down around him, Foggy's voice full of tears and anger and hurt, he thinks this might be it.

This might be rock bottom.

This might be the threshold that finally breaks him.

"I'm an asshole, Foggy," Matt chokes, "but I wouldn't fake being friends with you for years. I wouldn't fake being a legitimately blind  _ idiot _ for years. You remember when I walked into that pole during freshman year?"

Foggy barks out a harsh laugh, his heart sounding almost surprised. "Fuck, yeah I remember that. It was the funniest fucking thing I'd ever seen once I got past the 'Oh fuck is he concussed?' part."

"I got distracted by a produce stall three blocks over. They had melons and lemongrass and I lost my mind and forgot to pay attention. One minute it was 'oh melons' and the next it was 'oh hell street sign' because I'd walked into a metal pole and my ears were ringing like hell."

"Melons?" Foggy barks. "You got distracted because of  _ melons??" _

"I like melons!" Matt says, indignant even as he smiles and tries not to laugh. "They smell good!"

"Jesus fucking  _ Christ." _ Foggy wheezes.

They laugh, and for a moment everything feels okay.

Like there might be a way to keep going after all.

Like there's a possibility that Nelson and Murdock won't burn to the ground.

"Matt." Foggy starts in the following silence. "I'm… really fucking pissed. You lied to me, for a really long time. A really, really long time. The entire time we've known each other. There's this entire goddamn part of you that I've never fucking known, and that hurts like hell.

"And, apparently, you go around beating people up. Like, sure, okay, worlds going to hell in a fucking hand basket. People's apartments are getting trashed, kids are getting kidnapped, folks are getting evicted. You decide to do something about it with your  _ enhanced senses,  _ go directly against the law we studied so fucking hard to learn. You run around in a mask, Matthew. You know what that shit is called? _ Vigilantism.  _ And it's illegal as all hell."

"My existence is illegal, Foggy. I'm enhanced, therefore a mutant. Which are kind of illegal as a general rule." Matt quietly pointed out.

Foggy kicked the wall. "So you've got double jeopardy. Whatever. You've been lying to me the whole entire goddamn time we've been friends. You're a vigilante and can hear shit going on in the entire city. And you've got a little baby disciple you're teaching your beating-up-people ways, which you learned because you're a child soldier. Am I missing anything?"

"The Russians tried to murder Claire a couple nights ago to get my name." Matt breathes.

Foggy inhales deeply and holds it. Then he slowly exhales. "Okay. That's a lot to unpack. Fucking hell. First. Claire?"

"Burner phone. She's a nurse. Her neighbor found me in a dumpster after I got shoved off of a roof." Matt pauses, and figures Foggy deserves to know, considering he's been lying to him for so long. "And stabbed."

"Oh my god."

Mistake.

_ Mistake. _

Matt tries to backtrack.

"I'm fine." He assures. "It was only a little stabbing. Like, two stab wounds."

"A  _ little  _ stabbing. Of course. That makes it so much better. God. Avoiding that horrifying rabbit hole. Second. Russians? Like, the Russian-mob-Russians?"

"Are there any others?"

"Of course. Of course you'd get involved with the Russian mob." Foggy says faintly. "Only you. Is this karma? For not becoming a butcher? I get saddled with a dumbass that beats the shit out of people because he has a twisted sense of justice?"

"I think," Matt suggests hesitantly, "it's because of that awful flannel you wore the day we quit Landman and Zack– ow."

"Shut up, you ass, that flannel was  _ great.  _ And you don't get to joke your way out of this one." Foggy scowls.

Matt wrinkles his nose. "Factually incorrect. That thing crawled out from the depths of hell. I would know. My grandmother was convinced Dad and I were possessed when I was younger."

"Yeah?"

"Mhmm.  _ Beware of those Murdock boys, _ she'd say,  _ they got the Devil in them _ . Drove Dad crazy, swearing up and down that she was sent directly from heaven to punish him for his sins." Matt explains.

"You know," Foggy says quietly, leaning into the wall as far away from Matt as he can be. "I've never heard you talk about your dad while you're happy? Always on his birthday, and his death day, but you were never happy then. Whenever you were convinced he would be disappointed in your actions you fell into a depressive episode. But here you are, talking about him. You aren't even crying."

"Just you wait, I'll find something." Matt warns, but he's smiling, just a bit. "Don't you test me, Foggy Nelson."

"Yeah, I don't really want to." Foggy says calmly. "You got upset because you got a ninety-nine on a quiz once."

"My dad didn't die for me to be shit at algebra, Foggy."

"There it is."

Matt smiles, but tilts away as it fades.

"Are we… are we repairable?" 

He hates that his voice cracks.

Foggy stops leaning on the wall, and instead sits down and pushes his chair back to balance on two legs and stares at the ceiling.

He's quiet for a long time.

"I dunno. Maybe. But if we were, no more secrets. That'd be a rule. No more lying. I don't care if it's for a surprise party or if it's because you got shot, or something. I want to know." Foggy says to the ceiling. "And I want partial custody of the kid. So he doesn't go the Matt route of vigilantism."

"I'll do my best. And he's not my kid, so it isn't really custody, but fine. I don't really want him to go the 'Matt route', so that's fine too."

"Then…" Foggy exhales, and it sounds like forgiveness. "Then I think we might be repairable."

"I can't stop, Foggy." He leans his head back and tries to keep his voice steady. "This city needs me."

"Yeah, well," Foggy inhales and it rattles in his throat, in his chest, in his lungs. "I needed my best friend."

Matt feels his heart seize in a way that he knows isn't real.

"I want that. I want that back. And I want to save this city."

Foggy turns away, and Matt can hear the first drop fall.

"I know. You can try.  _ We  _ can try. But I don't know if it's possible. You know," Foggy sniffles, "I still want you to be my best friend. I still want you there, but I don't know if you deserve it."

Matt tries to breathe, and the first two tries don't work.

"I don't think I do. But I'll try. I promise."

"I'm not sure if I believe you."

"I know. That's okay. You don't have to."

"I'd like to believe you," Foggy whispers. "I'd really, really like to. And, I guess that's all I can do. But you'll have to work for it, Matthew. You'll have to work for Nelson and Murdock. And maybe," his breath rattles, "maybe someday we'll be okay again."

"I'd like that." Matt says quietly.

Foggy sighs, and it sounds watery. "Me too, Matty.

"Me too."

———

Peter feels like the worst human being in the history of humanity when he goes to school on Tuesday.

Everytime he closes his eyes, he hears the crunch and the squelch and the slam of the car door.

Matt's voice keeps ringing in his ears, over and over again, saying  _ it wasn't your fault  _ and  _ he would've killed you  _ and  _ you couldn't've saved him. _

And Peter  _ knows that. _

He knows that he's little and eleven and he's learning, but that doesn't stop the shame and the guilt from splashing against his teeth like acid.

It tastes like cowardice.

His whole body is numb with the feel of it.

Aunt May hadn't known what was wrong, and he couldn't tell her. Uncle Ben had some sort of terrible understanding of what the look in his eyes had meant, but hadn't pushed him.

He keeps waiting for them to ask, to question him.

_ Why did you flinch away from that car door?  _ or  _ why did you hide from that man wearing a suit?  _ or  _ why did you look at Brooklyn bridge and almost have a breakdown? _

But they don't ask.

They wrap him in blankets and watch movies together and bring out popcorn, providing silent comfort without actually asking what's wrong.

Peter thinks that they're hoping he'll tell them on his own time.

But he  _ can't. _

And all of their support just feels  _ worse. _

What is he even supposed to say?

Uncle Ben's a cop, he'll  _ have  _ to report it in, and then the bald man will get him too, and then May, and Ned and Matt and Foggy, he'll get everyone he cares about before finally getting Peter.

That's how supervillains  _ work. _

Peter's read too many comic books to  _ not _ know that.

Matt can defend himself and Foggy, but Aunt May and Uncle Ben and Ned?

Peter can't protect them.

Not on his own or how he is.

Little.

Small.

_ Weak. _

He has to get better.

He has to  _ be _ better.

And he can't get there yet.

It'll take so, so long for him to get to the level he needs to be at and there aren't any shortcuts.

Peter needs to be careful.

It seems like it sometimes, but life isn't a comic book or a movie. Things aren't going to magically get better for him. He has to work for it. He has to play it smart.

If he messes up, he doesn't get a second chance.

If he messes up, more people die.

The weight of what he's apart of now sits square on his shoulders like the sky itself is bearing down on him.

Like if he stumbles even once, the whole world will fall.

And shatter.

And  _ die. _

His pencil clatters to the floor, and in the silence, it's loud enough to shake Peter out of his thoughts.

Loud enough to make him realize that there's thirty minutes of class left and he hasn't even touched his worksheet.

Peter frantically fills out algebra problems, barely sparing the energy to return to his previous topic of thought.

He doesn't have time.

For anything.

For training, for school, for doing his worksheet.

Peter doesn't have enough time.

"Peter?" Ned whispers, "Are you okay?"

His worksheet is done.

Normally, they would've finished together, and spent the rest of class whispering and drawing.

But Peter was distracted.

He was distracted.

"Fine," is what he says, even though he's really, really not.

He can't tell Ned either.

They were supposed to hang out yesterday, and Peter bailed on him, saying he didn't feel good, and that they could do it another time.

Time, time, time.

Peter doesn't have enough  _ time. _

And he's not sure how to make more.

It feels like the walls are closing in on him, imaginary ones that talk and say  _ you're running out, you're running out, go faster before it's too late,  _ but Peter can't go any faster than he is.

He's little.

And normal.

And he hates it.

But there's nothing he can do about it and he just has to  _ live with that. _

"If you say so," Ned mumbles, unconvinced. He sounds a little hurt.

Ned knows something's wrong.

_ And Peter can't tell him. _

"It's not–" he inhales, far too shaky for someone that's just having a conversation with their best friend. "It's not you, I promise. I just can't tell you, okay? It's personal. Like, Level I-haven't-talked-to-May-and-Ben-about-it-either personal."

Ned's eyes go a little wide. Peter tells Aunt May and Uncle Ben pretty much everything. He's never had a need for secrets. Not until now.

"Oh," Ned seems to understand the significance of that. "Okay."

"Thanks."

Ned doesn't ask him about it again until lunch.

"Did something like, happen?" At Peter's look he quickly backpedals. "You don't need to tell me, or anything, don't feel pressured! You just, kinda–"

"You look like shit, Parker."  _ Michelle Jones  _ says, sliding into the seat across from them like she hadn't been completely averse to talking to anybody, ever, just last week. "I drew you, but I can't decide what to call it."

"Thanks, it's the trauma," Peter snarks back before he can stop himself.

_ "Dude,"  _ Ned hisses.

He wants to regret it, but Michelle's almost impressed expression stops him.

Michelle doesn't have human emotions.

Everyone knows that.

He, Peter Parker, just made Michelle Jones, being of chaos, have an emotion.

There should be an achievement for that.

Michelle raises an eyebrow.

"Gutsy. You growing a backbone, Parker?" 

"How do you know I haven't always had one?" 

"Please. You let Flash shove you around, you jump at every little noise, and if you tried to run even half a mile in gym, you'd have an asthma attack. We're in the public education system, loser, we've all been going to the same schools since elementary, and half of us are gonna go to Midtown in a couple years, one way or another. Everybody knows everybody, and everybody knows you're a pushover."

Michelle says it so easily.

Picks him apart casually and without effort, laying him bear without all of the pieces, and it sits wrong in Peter's chest.

It feels far too close to what Flash is always saying to him, what his thoughts are always saying to him, and when Peter speaks next, it comes out harsher than he'd intended.

"It's 'Flash picks on me daily and I brush it off' or 'Flash tears into someone like Cindy and ruins them'. I know which one I prefer." He snaps.

"Strength hiding behind meekness." Michelle intones. "How noble."

"It's not noble. It's being a decent person."

"And so modest too." Michelle laughs, dull, with a condescending grin. "And they say chivalry is dead."

"It's less chivalry and more waiting until we're out of school so I can punch him in the jaw when he least expects it because he thinks I'm a doormat."

"Ooo, Parker, the man with a plan." 

Ned gapes. "You're gonna  _ punch him?"  _

"I wasn't before," Peter admits. "But I definitely am now."

Michelle hums. "You look significantly less like shit, Parker. I expect daily updates on the plan to shove Flash off his ego and down to his IQ." She closes her sketchbook, gives one jaunty, mocking wave, and leaves the cafeteria without another word.

"She's so cool." Ned whispers in awe.

"She's so cool." Peter agrees.

Ned turns to him. "Seriously, though? You're gonna punch Flash?"

"Not so loud!" Peter hisses. "Eventually, I guess. It'd be nice, to knock him down a peg."

"I mean, yeah. But that's like, social suicide."

"Not if he's scared of me." Peter points out.

"I guess. And, like, 'thanks, it's the trauma'? What does  _ that  _ mean?"

"I panicked."

"You're always panicking."

"I know, that's the point."

_ "Peter." _

"I can't tell you!" He throws his hands up. "I really, really can't, and I don't want to, and you don't want to know! I know you think you do, but you really don't!  _ Please,  _ stop asking!"

"Okay, okay." Ned huffs. "I was just making sure."

_ "Thank you." _

"… Okay, but are you  _ sure." _

_ "Ned!" _

———

The world is on fire.

Hell's Kitchen is  _ burning. _

Smoke fills the air, thick and putrid and acid down his throat.

Glass litters the ground, mixed with brick and asphalt and ash, torn up dirt and mud sticking it together like glue.

There's bodies everywhere, people and animals alike, ones that move and groan and ones that breathe and sleep and ones that are still-warm corpses, cooling in the midnight air.

It smells like death, and fire, and brimstone as the entire world screams in silent agony.

Foggy's in the hospital.

May was called in hours ago.

Ben is who knows where by now.

Matt won't pick up his phone.

In that moment, it really looks like Hell.

Towers of ash and smoke and fire coiling in the air like serpents, reaching into the sky like fingers, like the city itself is begging Heaven and all its angels to come down from the high clouds and save it.

Peter has never been religious.

But he finds himself folding his fingers to pray.

The worst part about it all though, about the death and destruction and desolation, is that Matt is being blamed for every single bit of it.

His picture is splashed across every single news site, show, and paper across the city.

Everyone is rioting for justice and retribution, and they don't even know who he is.

If he really did it or not.

Peter feels sick.

This is what absolute powerlessness feels like.

This is what it looks like when the enemy holds all the money and cards.

They can just.

Blow up the world and push it on someone else without even being  _ looked _ at.

Hell's Kitchen is a bought city going up in flames and the real culprit is probably sitting in some fancy highrise, city none the wiser, as the scapegoat burns in the fire.

Looking back on it, that moment, where eight columns of fire and death rose in Hell's Kitchen, is when Peter finally starts to realize that not everybody in the world can be saved.

Not everybody in the world  _ deserves _ to be saved.

Maybe, before this, if he'd seen that awful man and had the choice, he would've just put him in jail, forever where no one could help him get out.

Maybe if he'd never met Matt and seen what violence looked like on a man, bruises and blood and broken bones.

But now?

After everything?

After seeing that man die, after watching Matt hold his stitches, after seeing an entire city go up in smoke?

Peter's starting to think that maybe that's too kind.

Hundreds of people are dead or injured or dying.

Dozens of buildings damaged or destroyed.

People have lost their loved ones and are going to continue to lose them.

People have lost their homes and are going to continue to lose them.

People have lost their  _ lives _ and are going to continue to lose them.

And the guy who did it?

He's going to get away with it.

_ He's going to get away with it. _

He didn't show mercy or kindness to the world.

If Peter ever sees him, ever sees that man, he won't give mercy or kindness to him either.

And for Peter, that's staggering.

May and Ben, they always tell him how kind he is, how big his heart is, how strong he is. Matt called him compassionate and kind and strong, too.

Everybody always calls him kind.

He'd like to think he's just being a good person.

That's his default.

Being kind.

But if he ever met that man, that bald man in the suit, he wouldn't be kind. 

Or good, or compassionate.

He'd be angry.

He'd be angry and he'd be bad and he'd be  _ mean. _

For all of the people that had been hurt today, all of the people that had been hurt yesterday, and all of the people that would be hurt tomorrow.

Peter is eleven years old.

He's little.

He's learning.

He's not strong yet.

But he will be.

He'll get older and bigger and better.

He'll get stronger, and smarter, and when he does, he'll save people.

And even if he can't save them, can't defend them, well.

Peter will sure as  _ hell _ avenge them.

———

Foggy thinks that maybe things had been easier when Matt was just his blind best friend, his partner, his fellow avocado at law.

Kind, sort of bumbling, with a ridiculous Catholic-induced guilt complex, and  _ infuriatingly good  _ at knowing when hot people were in the room and which ones they were.

_ The bastard. _

It was easier when he was just.

Saint Matthew.

Lover of humanity.

Matty.

Foggy's dumbass best friend.

Because now… 

Now Matt is his blind,  _ superpowered _ , maybe-not-even-friend that goes out, beats people halfway to hell as an extracurricular, and occasionally trains the smallest child Foggy had ever met to do the same.

That still turns up at the office with broken fucking ribs.

That is painfully careful around him, never crossing boundaries, never speaking to him unless asked to or during a consultation.

That is horribly, horribly kind about it all to the point that Foggy wants to tear his hair out and  _ scream. _

That is, currently, on the news for all the world to see, as the bombing of Hell's Kitchen is placed squarely on his shoulders.

It doesn't help that Matt won't answer his goddamn phone.

Matt being blind and thus lost during a bombing was a nightmare scenario before, but now, with Matt being blind but also aware of the surrounding city blocks with his fancy fucking senses, and apparently carrying a death wish that  _ will  _ be addressed later, so  _ help him God,  _ and being blamed for the bombing, and having a savior complex, it's a fucking wonder Foggy hasn't died from the stress of it.

There was a brief moment of brilliant brain-word association when the nurse came up to take Mrs. Cardenas, her name tag reading  _ Claire,  _ and he'd gone "Oh shit are you Matt's nurse friend I am so sorry?" and she'd looked at him with a startling clarity and went "I appreciate it but no apology is worth dealing with him," and he, like an idiot, had said "Yeah that sounds like Matt," before realizing he was bleeding and kind of maybe full of shrapnel, he should probably get that checked out, yeah?

He hasn't seen Karen in a while and can only hope that she isn't out doing something stupid as fuck like Matt, but he seems to be inclined to surrounding himself with reckless idiots, for reasons unknown to everybody including himself.

It might be karma.

For like, not becoming a butcher.

He should've just been a butcher.

Foggy could've had a simple life, cutting and selling his own meat.

Or he could've gone into the family business, worked the store, developed  _ practical skills _ , but  _ no,  _ he wanted to be a  _ lawyer,  _ Mom, a  _ lawyer. _

Yeah, no, he's sure now.

This is karma.

This is definitely karma.

Claire, Matt's nurse friend that he belatedly remembers him having to rescue from the Russians, stops by for a hot second to tell him that Matt called and had apparently been having a good time with the leader of the Russian mob before hanging up.

She'd said Matt had burned his skin shut with a flare, baring no small amount of teeth.

Is it a him thing?

A Matt thing?

Does he just attract vicious people or does Matt draw them in like a black hole and Foggy deals with them via proximity??

Science???

At some point, he's not sure when, Peter ends up on the floor by his bed.

Foggy isn't sure why he picked the floor instead of the chair, but then he remembers that Peter has that stupid guilt complex too, and probably wanted to like,  _ 'save it for someone really important like Matt or Ms. Karen or your family, Mr. Foggy'  _ or something equally sweet but inevitably dumb.

Peter is adorable.

Horrendously endearing.

Very easy to get attached to and will immediately become attached in turn.

He's also stupid and ridiculous.

Watching the TV with unwavering focus, even though they're all saying the same things and he's probably already seen them half a dozen times by now.

The only thing that changes is the death toll.

Foggy reaches out his arm and holds out his hand.

Peter grabs it without a word, curling almost protectively around it.

Like he can shield Foggy from the world. 

His eyes are puffy, his cheeks red, bloody and pink crescents contouring the surface of his palms.

He looks tired, and wrung out, and exhausted.

So much smaller than normal, squished up next to Foggy's hospital bed and curling around his arm like a dragon would with gold.

Through the smoke outside his window and the haze of drugs in his head, Foggy can see the pink of sunrise start to paint the horizon.

They still haven't caught the masked man.

Haven't caught Matt.

Foggy finds himself viciously pleased.

Hell's Kitchen is burning around him, there's stitches in his stomach, two of his friends are MIA, there's a tiny, guilt ridden child clinging to his arm like it's the only thing holding him together, and he still manages to be proud of his dumbass for not getting arrested for  _ bombing his fucking city. _

The anxiety is sure as hell still running rampant through his head and his heart, because even if they haven't caught Matt yet that doesn't mean he's in the clear. He could he dead, or dying, or bleeding out in a dumpster, his body slash corpse just waiting for someone to stumble upon it.

They definitely need to have another talk later, about disappearing acts, and the worth of Matt's life, and the amount of stress Foggy feels not knowing if his– fuck it,  _ his best friend,  _ is dead or alive or making his way there.

They are definitely, definitely, going to have another talk about it.

But for now, Peter scrambling to answer his phone with a shaking voice and trembling hands and eyes that might just be watering, he thinks it can wait.

For just a little bit longer.

Foggy closes his eyes as Peter puts his call on speaker phone and leans back.

Yeah.

He thinks it can wait.

———

"I think something's wrong with Matt."

Foggy pauses.

Something starts to sink and twist in his stomach.

"There's always something wrong with Matt." He responds carefully.

Peter pouts at him from his homework. The Parker's had been working overtime since the bombing and Peter had set up shop in the office after school since then.

Peter says he does it because it's quiet and he doesn't want to be alone.

Foggy thinks it's because Peter's afraid something will happen to him again if he isn't there.

_"No," _he huffs, "I mean I think something's _really _wrong with Matt. He told me not to show up for training today Mr. Foggy."

And that.

Doesn't sound like Matt?

Foggy doesn't really have a frame of reference for the other side of Matt, the man in the mask, but Peter looks completely serious and genuinely unsettled.

Matt may be good at fighting and taking a beating, but he's also the worst liar on the entire fucking planet and so is Peter.

He wouldn't make something up, and while he  _ is _ the opposite of Matt in the sense that he has  _ many  _ emotions, he wouldn't bring it up to Foggy unless he thought something was really wrong.

Something or other about  _ 'not being a burden',  _ which was absolute bullshit, but whatever.

Which meant, maybe, that Matt cancelling training was an indication of something actually being really wrong.

He hasn't seen Matt today.

At all.

That sinking something in his stomach twists his intestines into knots and starts to fall faster.

Peter wrings his hands. "Did he show up this morning, Mr. Foggy?"

His throat feels dry.

"No. He didn't." Foggy grabs his phone. "Karen!?"

"Yeah?!" She shouts back from her office.

_ 'Where are you?'  _ he types out.

"Have you seen Matt!?"

Karen pokes her head out of her office, blonde curls swinging. "Not since yesterday, no."

"When, yesterday?" 

Foggy hits send.

Karen hums and steps out with a chewed up stack of paper, before dropping it into the recycle bin with excess ceremony.

"Before I left to help Mrs. Cardenas with her groceries and you followed me and I took you to meet Ben. So, early afternoon, late morning." Karen goes still for a moment, then rounds on Peter. "Would you like to meet my reporter friend and add to the conspiracy board?" She asks very seriously.

"I love conspiracy boards?" Peter says, not at all confident.

"Fantastic. Let all of our trauma come together," Karen declares with gravitas, "to  _ destroy the rich white men." _

"Something is seriously wrong with us," Foggy mutters.

"It's how I cope Foggy."

"It's the trauma?" Peter tries.

Karen nods. "Exactly."

Foggy's phone buzzes.

_ 'Apartment'. _

_ 'Did you need something?'. _

_ 'I overslept. Sorry.' _

"Okay, so I think Matt's dying." Foggy says without preamble.

"Oh my god."

_ "Mr. Foggy!!" _

"He says that he  _ overslept," _ Foggy says with mounting horror. "Matt doesn't oversleep. He hates sleeping. He doesn't sleep more than the necessary amount required by human body if he can help it. He usually  _ under  _ sleeps. He once did a term paper on three hours of sleep and four Monsters. Matt doesn't  _ oversleep _ ."

Peter seems to be sharing the panic he's starting to feel but Karen is completely unsympathetic.

"Oh," she says, like it isn't the beginning of the apocalypse, "then just go check on him. He might be lying or he might just be depressed. Bring him some booze."

"Oh my god Karen no."

"Oh my god Karen  _ yes. _ " She nods slowly. "The longer you let him sit the more dramatic he's gonna get. You have to go  _ deal with him.  _ You should know this by now."

"I  _ do  _ Karen but this is  _ Matt  _ we're talking about. He's going to be dramatic no matter  _ how  _ long I let him sit."

"No to the alcohol, yes to the checking?" Peter asks hesitantly.

Foggy groans.

"Yeah. Sure. Let's go make sure Matt isn't dying."

"Have fun!" Karen laughs.

"You could come with us, Karen." Foggy suggests.

She smiles, because she's cruel and he never should've hired her. "Naaaaah. You guys need to chat and actually talk about your problems."

_ "Mean." _

Which is how Foggy finds himself with a nervous eleven year old at three in the afternoon pounding on his best friend's door.

There is no answer.

After two more minutes of waiting, Peter makes a nervous sound in the back of his throat and digs through his backpack for a small bag.

And then he starts attacking the doorknob.

"Why do you have lockpicks."

Peter squints at him. "Why  _ don't  _ you have lockpicks?"

"Peter," Foggy starts, "sweet child.  _ Nobody _ has lockpicks."

"I have lockpicks. Matt has lockpicks. Uncle Ben has lockpicks. Aunt May has lockpicks. Michelle has–"

"Please stop."

"You  _ asked." _

"And I regret asking."

Then there's a loud  _ click, _ Peter turns the doorknob, and the door opens.

Foggy immediately wishes it hadn't.

Matt's apartment is a  _ wreck. _

His table is broken all the way to kindling, one of the wall dividers is trashed and torn through, and the bottom stair leading to the roof is sagging and surrounded by splinters of jagged wood.

There's broken bottles on the ground, a lamp still on its side, and small splatters of blood on the floor.

Some attempt to clean up seems to have been made, all of the table kindling piled together in a heap, the couches presumably righted from being knocked over, and the kitchen is neat at least.

Peter steps through first, for all that he's pale as a sheet.

"Matt?" He calls.

Foggy walks through a half step later, closing the door behind him. 

"Matty? You alive?"

There's a sad sound that echoes through the apartment, then a yelp, and the sound of feet hitting the floor, before Matt is around the room dividers in a panicked mess.

He looks  _ awful. _

Torn halfway to hell with fresh bruises and raised wounds, a cut above his eyebrow and nasty scars on his torso.

His hair is a mess, which means he probably was sleeping, and seeing Matt's sightless eyes desperately searching for  _ something  _ is kind of heartbreaking.

Like even though it's been over a decade his eyes haven't quite figured out he's blind yet.

He stumbles to the ground in front of Peter, tilting his head this way and that as he tries to find something that's wrong.

"Peter? Why are you– Foggy? Why did you bring Peter here?" Matt asks, twisting to face him, and he sounds hopelessly lost, almost painfully so. "Are you okay? Are you hurt? Did something–"

"We were worried." Peter cuts in, and Matt halts in his fluttering. "About you. Me and Mr. Foggy."

"I– I'm fine? I'm fine?" He says. "That doesn't– are  _ you  _ okay? You're not hurt, or anything?"

"Matt," Foggy frowns and crouches down to be level with him. Peter follows suit, like the cute little duckling he is. "You're not fine. You look pretty fuckin bad. Remember what we said? The rules?"

"I didn't get shot," Matt defends, and sounds almost proud. "I would've told you."

Ninja Matt is so weirdly different from Lawyer Matt.

He's like a feral cat.

Oh god, what if Matt starts bringing him beat up guys as presents? Like a cat bringing dead birds to its owner?

What if Feral Cat Matt tries to teach him how to hunt?

Is Peter his kitten??

_ Oh god what rabbit hole has he stumbled into. _

"And I appreciate that you would've told me if you got shot." Foggy says, desperately trying to stay focused on the matter at hand and not cat analogies. "But you look real bad, buddy, and your apartment looks like a health hazard. Or a fire hazard. Or an anything hazard, if I'm being honest."

"It's– not great?" He hedges. "I haven't had time to clean. But you're– you're okay? No one's bothered you, or anything?" Matt tilts his head back at Peter. "You're alright? Nothing strange?"

Peter tilts  _ his head _ in response and it is  _ adorably  _ similar to the way Matt does. "I saw a man on the way here that wasn't familiar. He held himself weird."

Matt goes stiff. "Glasses, cane? Older, receding hair?"

"Sounds right." Peter nods. "He was walking the opposite direction I was. His nose looked broken."

_ "Stick," _ Matt breathes, and it sounds like a death sentence.

"Stick?" Foggy asks.

"My sensei," he mumbles and starts frantically turning Peter this way and that. "He didn't talk to you, didn't look at you, didn't anything? He stayed far away?"

"Mhmm."

"Your _ sensei? _ As in, the guy that recruited you for his  _ war?  _ When you were  _ ten?" _ Foggy hisses.

He nods. "Stick. He–" Matt falters for a second and then seems to choose his words carefully. "He asked for my help, last night. I went on the mission, and we disagreed when we got back. Fought, trashed the place. He said– he said he could tell I'd been training you, Peter, and–"

"Asked you what made you better than him?" Peter cuts in without any warning.

Jesus  _ Christ _ kid.

Leave no survivors,  _ goddamn. _

You don't pull your punches, do you?

Matt goes through a full body flinch, tucking his head away and pulling his hands back close to his body like he'd been burned.

It kind of hurts to watch.

Peter huffs and grabs for Matt's hands.

"Anybody who asks a question like that," Peter states matter of factly, "asks it because they want you to feel bad to make themselves feel better because they're an awful person."

"Christ, this kid is so smart, Matty," Foggy reaches over to gently tilt Matt's head towards him. "How'd you find such a smart kid?"

Matt blinks for a moment, long and slow, and says, "I don't understand?"

"We think Stick is a piece of shit that you're leagues above, Matthew, get with the program, did you not hear the brilliant child?"

"What?" Matt says, looking absolutely baffled.

"Your sensei sucks," Peter says. "Where's your broom?"

"I uh– I don't? Have one?" Matt answers. "I don't think?"

Peter stands up, holds out his hand, and in the most dead voice Foggy has ever heard from an eleven year old child, says, "Give me your money, I'm going to Walmart and getting you a broom."

"Walmart??" Matt asks like a confused puppy.

"Actually probably CVS but Walmart sounded better." Peter amends. "Give me your money, I'm going to CVS and getting you a broom."

"Uh, it's– it's on my nightstand? My wallet is on my nightstand? Actually, I'll–" Matt stands up and forcibly grabs Peter to stop his march to the other side of the room dividers. "I'll go get it, I don't want you walking on glass."

"My aunt's a nurse."

"My  _ friend's _ a nurse. I don't want you walking on glass." Matt repeats.

Peter huffs. "Fine."

"Thank you."

Foggy watches Matt scramble away through the mess of his apartment, and then turns to Peter. "Are you actually going to get him a broom?"

"Yes." Peter says with devastating certainty. "And I'm gonna get him some rocks from home tomorrow, and some plants, and he can't stop me."

"What?"

"I'm getting you lemongrass!" Peter all but shouts. "And some succulents! And some quartz and amethyst! And some tiger's eye if I can find any!"

_ "What???" _ Matt shouts back, stumbling back into the room with his wallet(???) and a shirt.

"It'll make you feel better," Peter angrily explains and takes Matt's wallet that Foggy has never actually seen before even once in his life. "We have 'em at my apartment in the kitchen. May let's me help arrange them. They'll make you feel better."

Matt goes dangerously still while Peter riffles through his wallet to find the cash.

"Oh?"

"They make you feel better, May said so. She's a nurse."

"Did she?" Matt asks, taking a step back.

It's such a one-eighty that Foggy almost does a double take.

"Mhmm. She stands next to them when she takes her anxiety medicine." Peter says seriously.

"Peter," Matt says slowly, "is your aunt a witch?"

Foggy almost chokes.

Then Peter looks up from Matt's wallet and happily chips, "Yes," and Foggy  _ actually  _ chokes.

_ "Oh my god," _ Matt whispers.

"I'm gonna get you some pumpkin seeds, too." Peter says with finality. "You like pumpkins, don't you? I'd get you melons but I don't know if they're in season."

"Mhmm. I like pumpkins." Matt says while looking like he's about to pass out.

"Foggy, make sure he doesn't jump out of a window, okay?"

"Sure?"

"Okay." Peter nods once. "I'll be right back." 

And he rushes out the door.

It's silent for a moment, Peter's footsteps echoing as he jumps down the stairs.

Then, 

"Oh my god my student's a baby witch," Matt whispers with horror.

Foggy can't help it.

He laughs.

———

"Ben Urich, Matt Murdock. Attorney at Why the Hell Bother." Karen introduces and wonders what Matt had gotten up to last night to give him such bruised knuckles. "And that's Peter Parker, Matt's not-kid."

Peter waves at them after he let's go of Matt's elbow.

Matt holds out his hand to shake and Ben hesitates a moment before moving his own hand to grasp it.

"Mr. Murdock." Ben says as they shake.

Matt does something with his mouth that isn't a smile, but isn't a grimace either. "Matt."

"My partner," Foggy grumbles with a raised and judgemental eyebrow, "thinks we should be pursuing this through the legal system."

Ha.

Ben nods and tips his coffee in Foggy's direction. "A lot safer that way."

Matt scrunches up his nose and scowls behind Ben's back, face smoothing as soon as Ben turns around to face him.

Wow.

Actual children.

"Hello," Peter greets, all wide eyes and open body language. He tilts his head  _ just so,  _ and squints before looking at Matt. "Is this the guy that wrote the Union Allied piece?"

The corner of Matt's lip quirks up. "That's him."

"Ah," Peter hums, before looking back at Ben with new scrutiny and holding out his hand to shake.

Ben takes it, and his hand dwarfs Peter's.

He's so  _ small. _

And  _ young. _

For a second, it really, really hits Karen that they've got a kid involved in this.

A little kid, not even in highschool, already witness to a murder at age eleven.

Jesus.

"Are you Ms. Page's reporter friend? With the conspiracy board that isn't a conspiracy board because it's real?" Peter asks in a rush.

Ben pales.

"Peter, you can't just ask that." Matt gently says.

"His pulse jumped when I asked." Peter observes almost  _ happily.  _ "Which means he was startled, which means I'm probably right."

Oh.

Oh my god.

Oh my god he's trying to be like  _ Matt, _ that's so _ cute. _

"Dial it back a bit, buddy," Foggy cuts in. "That was really smart, waiting to ask your question until you could feel his pulse, but please don't interrogate Mr. Urich." 

"It was just a question," Peter says, all doe eyes, and Karen wants to know where he learned to weaponize his own face. She'd like some lessons. "And I was right anyway."

He let's go and weaves around them to drop off his backpack in Matt's office.

"Ms. Page," Ben starts, but Karen doesn't let him get any further.

"You can trust Matt and you can trust Peter. The both of them are involved whether you like it or not and we need all the people we can get if we want to nail this guy."

Ben purses his lips as Peter slips back into the room and slides some books onto their sad little bookcase.

"That boy can't be older than ten–"

"I'm eleven," Peter pipes up from his shelving, "and I witnessed the murder of the Anatoly Ranskahov, leader of the Russians."

His voice doesn't waver, doesn't stumble, not once.

Karen's kind of both proud and horrified.

At how strong he's being and at what this city's doing to him.

"I'm involved whether you like it or not," Peter says in an echo of her words, "so instead of arguing can we work?"

"Did you do that to him?" She hears Foggy whisper to Matt.

She sees him shrug helplessly. "I have no idea." He whispers back. "He used to be a lot more shy, really nervous, but I think the bombing really freaked him out so he's getting aggressive to cope."

"Ah," Foggy says, "so he's gonna have a break down any day now."

Matt wrinkles his nose. "I guess?"

Peter's declaration seems to have pulled Ben up short. 

"You– you saw the murder of the Russians' leader?" He asks in a quiet voice.

"It was two days before the bombing, I think. Big bald man in a suit with a New York accent did it." Peter says, his knuckles white. Matt must hear something they don't, because he quickly detaches from Foggy and puts a hand on Peter's shoulder. "Slammed his head to bits with a car door. The man had waited for him to show up, and then killed him."

"His name is Wilson Fisk," Matt whispers, like if he says it too loudly the man will appear and blow up the world one more time. "I heard it from a client right before he killed himself by slamming his head into a metal spike."

And Karen–

Karen had not known that.

Fuck.

God, that must of been Healy.

Matt was there when Healy killed himself.

_ Fuck. _

She's gonna take Matt out for drinks after this is all over.

All three of them.

But specifically Matt because Jesus Christ, this man? Can fit so much trauma in him?

She'll keep one of the cool bottles if she can to give to Peter so he can do all of his cute little witchy things to it.

At the very least he can break it and have some cool glass?

Or put plants in it and put it in his kitchen?

Whatever.

Definitely something adorable and witchy that she will immediately copy and fill Matt's office with.

He hates it.

His little Catholic heart  _ burns  _ with hate.

Matt Murdock don't mess with witches.

Except for Peter.

Because he didn't know Peter was a witch but now he's COMMITTED.

Completely and absolutely INVESTED in this itty bitty middle schooler.

It's hilarious.

One of the only good things she's got in this hell world where people die and no one cares.

"Wilson Fisk?" Ben barks, "the guy that just announced himself on TV as a man committed to cleaning up Hell's Kitchen?"

Matt nods. "That's the one."

Ben inhales, stiffly, and looks away.

"Ben, if Fisk is the guy behind this, and he is, then we need to do something about it. People are  _ dying." _ Karen says.

"If we were the only ones after him, I'd tend to agree. Friend of yours came to see me the other night. The man in the mask."

Foggy turns to glare at Matt behind Ben's back and Karen just barely restrains herself from turning on him.

Had he gone to vet Ben?

To interrogate him?

"The Devil of Hell's Kitchen." Peter says, and he seems to be the only one that's calm.

Ben nods. "Says he was framed. By Fisk."

"Sounds like something Fisk would do." Foggy scowls, and Karen tries not to think about the amount of bloody bandages in their trash. "Sounds like something anybody with twisted morals and fuck ton of money would do."

"You believe him?" Ben asks.

Foggy shifts and says very quietly, "He saved Karen. He saves kids, and women, and all the other people that no one else gives a damn about."

"That's a strong opinion."

Peter snorts and crosses his little eleven year old arms, looking far too tired and far too bitter for his age. "It's the kind of time for strong opinions. Anything less and they get eaten by the highest bidder."

Karen's fingers itch like she's still selling away her soul with a pen.

Little Ariel and her voice being traded to the sea witch for legs.

Karen and her memories and Confederated Global and a nice little sum of money.

Except her story has no happy ending.

There is no prince waiting for her.

Only the continued existence far away from a gravestone in exchange for Karen keeping her mouth shut.

"Man in the mask gave me a thumb drive." Ben says and pulls the stack of papers out from under his arm. "I printed all this from that."

Karen takes it with shaking fingers and stares at the printed out version of her words, of Foggy's, of Peter and Matt's, at the paper version of a little word document hidden behind Peter's firewalls.

It feels far too heavy in her hands.

All of the secret words written to damn a man all the way to hell.

"Oh my god," slips out of her mouth, numb and cold.

"Told me Fisk was behind the bombings and shooting those cops. Said he owns half the police, that they helped him take down the Russians." Ben huffs.

"Sounds right," Matt says and Karen thinks that she isn't the only one that can hear the guilty undertone of his words. "I heard shots coming from the warehouses that blew up when civilians were being rushed to safety centers."

"Jesus," Foggy breathes, like he hasn't heard all of these things from Matt before.

Like they all haven't.

"You can't do anything with this," Karen holds the papers close to her chest. "Without corroboration, it's just words."

"Smoke in the wind." Matt says softly.

"Hearsay." Peter whispers, sounding far too small.

"And even if you could," Foggy sighs, sounding bone weary, "the media's dead set on him as Detective Blake's murderer. You'd never be able to spin him as the good guy. Not now."

Ben takes a sip of his coffee. "Said Blake's partner Hoffman did it, probably on Fisk's orders."

"Have you talked to him?" Foggy asks.

Ben gives a derisive shake of his head. "Tried. He's in the wind. Or bottom of the river. Either way." He shrugs.

"He shrugged," Foggy says softly.

Matt nods and Ben says, "Sorry."

"The Devil of Hell's Kitchen doesn't kill people." Peter says almost defensively. His hand is back on Matt's elbow and his knuckles are white.

Matt doesn't flinch even though it must be painful.

"And how are you sure?"

Peter stares unflinching.

"Track record. He leaves people alive, in comas, or eating through straws. The Devil doesn't kill them. He lets the other guy make that decision."

"Other guy?"

"God. Fate. Death. Whatever you wanna call it." Peter raises his chin and sets his jaw and an expression wholly Matt. "But the Devil doesn't kill people."

Matt looks like every word in his defense burns from the shock of it.

"Maybe not." Ben allows. "But the papers still say he killed Blake, and that he shot those cops, and that he that bombed those warehouses, so that's what the city's gonna believe."

"What about the Union Allied money?" Karen asks, even though they've all poured over this before. " Is there a way that we can tie it directly to Fisk?"

Ben shrugs.

"Maybe. According to the Mask, a man named, uh, Leland Owlsley runs the books." He scowls. "But since getting roughed up by him, Owlsley's been surrounded by Fisk's security. Can't get anywhere near him."

Matt has the grace to look somewhat apologetic out of Ben's line of sight.

"Same goes with, uh, James Wesley, the guy you said hired you to defend Healy."

"The guy that killed himself because he was so afraid of what Fisk would do," Matt says and Karen feels kind of sick.

How powerful, how terrifying, do you have to be to become the kind of man that makes people rather  _ kill themselves  _ than live to see what he could do?

"What can we possibly do against Fisk that could make a difference?" Foggy asks.

Karen opens and closes her mouth several times before she can get words out.

"Look, the Mask came to Ben for help, to get this out into the world and away from closed doors. And I don't care how rich Fisk is, nobody can totally erase their past." Karen drags a hand through her hair and thinks of all the late nights since Fisk killed Anatoly Ranskahov. Since they found out  _ Matt _ was the man in the mask. "I mean, somewhere out there, there has to be a piece of paper, a witness, the truth."

"Confederated Global." Foggy says suddenly. "The suit that hired us to defend Healy was standing right next to Fisk when he gave his big speech."

Peter mumbles something Karen doesn't catch but has Matt struggling not to laugh.

"I looked into that. According to FCC filings, Confed Global's where Fisk gets most of his reported income." Ben nods to himself. "All right, let's play this out.

"If Fisk is connected to Confed Global, that means he's involved in Westmeyer-Holt Contracting, which Westmeyer-Holt is strong-arming tenants out of their rent-controlled apartments."

"They were hired by a guy named Armand Tully." Karen says

Ben wrinkles his nose in what might be surprise. "The slumlord?"

Foggy scowls. "Landman and Zack say he's on vacation on an island that no one can pronounce, where they use coconuts as phones."

"Coconut's would be terrible receivers." Peter says.

"I know, right?"

_ "Anyway," _ Ben cuts in. "That's another connection in the wind."

"But we've still got Westmeyer-Holt to Confed to Fisk." Karen chimes in.

Ben shrugs. "Then we pull that thread, see what it unravels."

It's not a lot.

Just a thread.

So thin it's almost like a tripwire, and if they aren't careful they'll stumble and spring the traps.

But if they don't  _ fight,  _ don't try to do something even if they're crawling and bloody and broken, then Fisk wins.

He wins, and more people die, and more buildings explode, and more and more people just don't care because there's money under their fingers.

If they don't fight, no one will.

So even if it's just a thread, they have to follow it.

For all of the people that keep getting hurt.

And if they're lucky, if things go right?

They'll send the whole damn house of cards crashing down like glass.

"Let's get to work."

———

What is the price of justice?

Is it blood?

Is it tears?

Is it bodies in the ground?

It is eleven year olds at funerals straight from school, blind men with collapsed lungs and stained knuckles?

Is it Peter, impossibly small, impossibly young, in his suit and tie holding roses for a women he never met first, and then a man he never got a chance to second?

Is it best friends covered in your blood, sobbing children weeping into stitches and sweaters?

Is it Matt full of stab wounds and cleaned up cuts, holding Peter with one arm and Foggy's hand with the other as they cry and cry and cry?

Is it arranging funerals for people no one knows, throwing guns into the Hudson so that no one ever finds them?

Is it Ben, dead and cold because she couldn't stop pushing him on a story that he didn't want to tell, leaving behind a wife he was never supposed to abandon?

Is it scrubbing off the blood only you can see, drinking coffee to fight off the visions sleep brings?

Is it drinking and bleeding and waking up feeling hands on your throat, bullets in your stomach, knives in your chest?

What is the price of justice, of truth?

Is it worth the sorrow it brings?

The memories and the sleepless nights and the alcohol lining the pantry?

Is it worth the blood on your hands?

Is it worth only having three friends left alive?

Is it worth the newspaper sitting in her hands, the madman locked in his prison cell?

Karen… doesn't know.

She doesn't know.

And all she can do is take what she has, and keep moving forward.

All she can do is watch Foggy and Matt heckle Peter about calling in sick to celebrate, laugh about the suit and the name in the paper, run her fingers across the plate that says  _ Nelson & Murdock, Attorneys at Law. _

All she can do is hope, and pray that everything leading to the present, to Fisk behind bars and the Devil in Hell's Kitchen, is worth it.

All she can do is try and make it enough.

All she can do is take what little good she has in her life and never let it go.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Beelzebub](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27564484) by [KilannaD](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KilannaD/pseuds/KilannaD)


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